


Recruitment method

by RRKK



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon, Translation from Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:34:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21646657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RRKK/pseuds/RRKK
Summary: Lestrade can sympathise with what John felt about being kidnapped by Mycroft. When it first happened to him he was dragged out of bed and blindfolded. It did not help the things that he only slept in his boxers.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 8
Kudos: 139





	Recruitment method

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Способ вербовки](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/539455) by Санастезис Некл. 



> I am not a native English speaker, and not a professional translator either, so the text may be far from perfect.

If Lestrade had lived in the nineteenth century, his motto would have been "don't panic" or "the world is unpredictable." The older he got, the more convinced he became that the universe was too amazing and changeable to bother. Today you're a successful stockbroker, tomorrow you're a sausage seller with a billion pounds in debt. Today you're the winner of "British top model", tomorrow you're a disfigured corpse on a backstreet. Today you have a family, and tomorrow your wife suddenly says that your mutual feelings are all gone, and that she is not even sure that they ever existed, but for whatever reason it is your suitcase she packs and you she kicks out of home. And you leave meekly because you agree with everything she said.  
  
So when he was suddenly woken up one night by a bunch of shaved heads in dark suits, dragged outside, blindfolded, and put in a car, Greg was more displeased than scared. Besides, the kidnappers had been incredibly polite, if unwavering, putting him in the front seat instead of stuffing him in the trunk, and among their conversations Greg caught a familiar name. So he thought he'd wait for the final act of this show and then decide whether it is worth it to worry.

By the time the car finally slid to a stop, Greg had dozed off. He was helped out of the cabin with extreme care, without hitting his head or twisting his leg, then led through a maze. They were in some kind of bunker, judging by the loud echo of their footsteps. Greg was chilled to the core by the time they reached their destination.  
  
The first thing he saw when the bandage was finally removed was a huge and pretentious picture of some very familiar guy. King, maybe, or something like that. A wide glass table stood directly below the picture of the likely-to be-king, and behind that table sat a man. The man was bent low over some papers and paid no attention to Greg, not even when he almost tore his throat with a polite cough.  
  
The situation was too strange to be polite, Greg thought, and sat down. Almost immediately, the man at the table spoke, still staring at his papers.  
  
"You have an interesting record, inspector," he said in a tone that left no doubt that Greg's record was the most boring thing imaginable. "In the last two months, your crime-solving statistics have increased significantly. Thanks, I suppose, to the collaboration with a man named "Sherlock Holmes."  
  
It didn't look like he needed an interlocutor, so Greg said nothing. He knew from the very beginning that Sherlock was sure to get him into trouble, he just had no idea how big it would be. He still felt too lazy to panic.  
  
"Your superiors are beginning to pay attention to you, so you will continue to use Mr. Holmes's services in the near future. I want you to provide me with a certain kind of information that concerns him."  
  
"In exchange for?"  
  
A snakelike grin split the face of the man at the table without touching his eyes.  
  
All this was supposed to be scary. Strange people who broke into his house, dragged him to who knows where. This office with a pretentious picture, pretentious globe and other pretentious and no doubt expensive things. And, of course, the master of it all, who never once looked up. His unhurried, smooth movements and the very tone of his voice, cold and arrogant, should have been threatening. In truth, they were, and somewhere deep inside Greg's stomach was sinking, so when it was over, he would probably down a bottle of whiskey. Maybe even two. But until then he had been calm, because there was no point in worrying now.  
  
"In exchange for... what is it you want?" - there was now much more contempt in the other's voice, though one would think, how could there possibly be more? "Money? Promotion? Proper…"  
  
"Shoes would be nice, for a start."  
  
The man at the table finally looked up from his papers. The grin slowly faded from his face. If Greg had been sitting closer, or if the light in the room had been brighter, he might have seen the pupils of the man across from him dilated, the slight twitch of his Adam's Apple, the quiver of his lips. "Shoes."  
  
"Shoes."  
  
"Shoes," the man repeated, pressing the intercom button.  
  
Almost instantly the door opened and a girl entered. She put a pair of shoes in front of Greg and quietly left.  
  
"They're too small for me."  
  
"Small?"  
  
"Yeah. These shoes are too small."  
  
"Mr. Lestrade's shoes."  
  
There was a slight crackle in the intercom, a murmur of an argument, then a hesitant male voice.  
  
"Mr. Holmes, shall we bring the shoes from Mr. Lestrade's house?"  
  
"You're fired," he said absently, and cut the connection.  
  
"So I'm not getting the shoes? Maybe trousers or a shirt, then?"  
  
Holmes was silent. The whole thing was slipping so rapidly into utter absurdity that Greg almost felt sorry for him. He scratched his bare stomach. Boxers with the British flag perfectly suited the office style.  
  
The door opened again, and the same girl who had brought the shoes before laid a dark blue suit and sneakers in front of him.  
  
"You are hired," Holmes said, staring at the empty space between Greg's legs and the edge of the table. "Write a bonus to those who accompanied Mr. Lestrade today. And fire them."  
  
The girl nodded and left. Greg pulled on the trousers, which were short, and the shirt. The sneakers fit just right.  
  
"I look like Tenth Doctor," he muttered to himself as he sat back down. "Allons-y, Mr. Holmes."  
  
"What?"  
  
"You were attempting to buy me."  
  
"How much do you cost?"  
  
"Per hour or per night?"  
  
"How about a season ticket?"  
  
"Depends on how good you are."  
  
Holmes had the air of a man who had just changed his plans.  
  
"Why do you want me to keep an eye on Sherlock? Can't you just get all the information about him as the..." - Greg hastily went through all possible family ties and uncertainly suggested: "...older brother?"  
  
Holmes didn't move a muscle, so it was hard to tell if Greg had guessed right.  
  
"We don't have the kind of relationship which would allow for that."  
  
"I will not leak you information about Sherlock."  
  
"There are many ways to make you."  
  
"I don't understand: are you threatening or flirting?"  
  
"Depends on how good you are."  
  
Greg chuckled.  
  
"Are you really going to break my legs or something if I refuse?"  
  
"What makes you doubt it?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
Holmes stared at him unblinkingly, his eyes heavy and dark.  
  
"I will really break your legs. If it will be necessary."  
  
"I'm not spying on Sherlock," Greg said, clearly aware that he was walking on the thin ice. "And it's not about the price."  
  
"What is it about?" Holmes leaned back, arms folded, and for the first time seemed genuinely interested in what Greg had to say.  
  
"Tell the truth. And if I decide it's the right thing to do, I'll help you."

"Truth is a relative term."  
  
Greg rolled his eyes.  
  
"It is three o'clock in the morning, Mr. Holmes. I have to go to work tomorrow. I believe you can cripple me, I believe you can ruin my life. I even agree to be afraid of you if it's important. But right now, honestly, we're not going anywhere until you tell me the truth."  
  
Holmes rose and went to an inconspicuous table in the corner behind the globe. There was a light tinkle, a gurgle, and then he held out a glass a quarter full of amber liquid. Greg approached, stopping half a step closer than was appropriate. Holmes did not retreat.  
  
"I am worried about him," he said, rolling the ice cubes in his glass. "Especially about his growing interest in opiates. I need to know he won't cross certain boundaries."  
  
"You need a babysitter."  
  
"Call it what you like."  
  
For a moment Holmes's face was inalterably weary, like that of an Atlantean who has been asked if it is not too hard to hold the firmament.  
  
"OK. I'll think about your offer."  
  
"Really?" Holmes raised his eyebrows, as if the suggestion surprised him. Then he finished his whisky and gave a wry smile, barely perceptible, out of the corner of his mouth. "Well, try it."  
  
He returned to his table and switched on the intercom.  
  
"A car for Mr. Lestrade." He picked up the papers as if he'd forgotten already Greg was there.  
  
Lestrade crossed the room and turned at the door.  
  
"Friday, at seven?"  
  
"Is that a season ticket?"  
  
"It's a dinner. And, most likely, a conversation."  
  
"I don't just do conversations."  
  
"I don't usually go to meetings in the middle of the night in my underwear, either. You never know what might happen."  
  
"Seven. I'll pick you up."  
  
Holmes frowned and pursed his lips, as if he were about to say something quite different, and now he did not understand why these words had come out of his mouth instead.  
  
Greg opened the door.  
  
"Mr. Lestrade?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Nice underwear."  
  
"Now you're definitely threatening."

The door closed before Greg could hear a short, dry chuckle.  
  
***  
  
" ...to drag me into the warehouse, to try to intimidate me, and to think I'd be his ally after that? Who did he think he was?" John waved his hand, nearly spilling his coffee.  
  
"Sorry, mate." Greg turned up the collar of his coat to escape the wind. His frozen fingers were barely able to hit the buttons on the phone.

They waited while Sherlock was sniffing something. In the literal sense - standing on all fours and burying his nose in the ground.  
  
_"Now you kidnap people in clothes?"_  
  
_"I learn from my mistakes."_  
  
"I don't see how anyone can get along with a man like that."  
  
"The world is unpredictable." - Greg smiled to himself. - "Let's go hurry up Sherlock. I want to be home before midnight."  
  
  
  



End file.
